


Small Enormities

by Owaya1



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, But it's mostly existential angst, But we like him anyway, College, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Iwaizumi Hajime Swears, Kuroo Tetsurou is an ass, M/M, Mentions of various diseases, Oikawa Tooru is a Dork, Sporadic sightings of various Haikyuu characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 18:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13840233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owaya1/pseuds/Owaya1
Summary: “You’re really bossy,” Oikawa amends, looking amused.“Am not,” Hajime insists and grits his teeth. He looks away, then back. Grabs the car door. “And stop skipping breakfast,” he barks, “It ticks me off.” He slams the door shut before Oikawa can pick that apart, and stalks away, fists buried in his pockets and his shoulders hunched.He shouldn’t have said that. He should just have left and gone to class. That would have been the smart, non-stalkery thing to do.——The fic in which Iwaizumi Hajime is a sleep-deprived med-student with obnoxious neighbours and the inconvenient ability to perceive injuries and sicknesses at a glance.And Oikawa Tooru? Well, he is just some guy with a mild concussion Hajime picked up from the pavement.





	Small Enormities

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!  
> It is a minor miracle this fic ever made it out of my secret WIP-folder-of-shame and I am pretty darn excited to share. The premise is inherently rather angsty, but I live to be contrary and as such the fic turned out slightly cracky as well. I hope you all enjoy it! 
> 
> A special thank you to Myra, — who not only has excellent taste in all things fandom, but who also draws, inspires, and made me want to sit down and write. A smaller but no less heartfelt thank you to ano-neesan, who helped me through a minor naming crisis, I dedicate my OCs to you.

 

 

 

       It starts the way most things start: by happenstance.

       Iwaizumi Hajime is sitting on a bench in the neighbourhood park, smoking his last cigarette with an air of quiet resignation. He’ll have to kick the habit for a while — his sparse income won’t be enough cover the cost of his weekly pack, — not this month anyway, not with the new heater he had to install last week after the old one broke. Hajime will be paying off the expense in increments for the next few months. Not a hard blow, but enough to put further strain on his already tight finances.

       The park is quiet at this hour, — only a few minutes past sunrise — and the city is still mostly asleep in that lethargic grumbling way large cities only are in the very early hours of morning. It has become a habit of his, to walk to this park every morning for a quiet smoke and to watch the sun climb up over the city skyline. The angle is just right from his spot on the bench, the morning light hitting a low glass-roofed building and setting the city afire with the illusion of shifting flames. He has tried to photograph it a few times, going so far as to bring his overly expensive canon camera for a few experimental shots. But it is ultimately a view best appreciated in the moment, — the stillness of the park and the sparse early-morning traffic adding a hushed, breathless quality that somehow eludes catching. It is like the world is whispering a secret, too quiet and too precious to be held or comprehended for more than the few short minutes every morning.

       He started coming here after his upstairs neighbour acquired dog, — a blatant disregard of the building’s no-pets-policy. Every day the mutt starts barking at precisely 5:08 and then keeps on barking until around 7:45 when the owners finally decides it is time for their morning walk. Hajime considers reporting them every weekend, but never quite gets around to it.

       So he comes here instead, avoiding the shrill pitch of his neighbour’s stupid dog, with his books slung over his shoulder and a thermo cup of tea hot in his hand. He sits and watches the city wake up, the gears of society slowly grinding into motion.

       There are others like him, people with their own early-morning rituals, who pass by his spot every day. The owner of the coffee shop across from the park washes his front-store windows every day without fail, rain or shine, the old lady in her purple fur coat and bright orange crocs who sweeps the sidewalk in front of her apartment. The large, fat tabby patrolling its territory religiously, its precise route made visible by a thin paw-made trail running smoothly across the grass and disappearing between a pair of bushes.

       And of course, there is the young man who runs the park’s perimeter every morning as part of his no-doubt extensive exercise routine. Hajime tracks the mans movements with his eyes as he runs past, — it is hard not to, to be honest — looking at him is like looking at a television without signal, a swath of static buzzing in his peripheral vision.

       It is a gift the men in his family has, the ability to perceive injuries and sicknesses at a glance, no matter how hidden. It had skipped two generations, but Hajime’s great grandfather had had the gift and his father before him. Nobody really expected Hajime to have it, — the recessive gene thought lost through the influx of foreign blood and intermarriage. Everyone had been overjoyed when he at an age of five told his mother she had a knot, growing in her breast.

       His mother had driven herself to the hospital that very same day, and sure enough, breast cancer, caught at a very early stage. She was declared healthy again within six months.

       His mother likes to say he saved her life that day. Hajime just thinks he should have said something sooner.

       Most of the time he ignores it, — it is a surprisingly easy thing to do really, simply  _ not  _ look unless he is made to. Not all wounds or illnesses are easy to see, it takes a certain familiarity with the human autonomy and medicine to differentiate between blood clots and tumours or the unset of real influenza and simple common colds. The Devil is in the details it is said, and it’s true in way, simply knowing something is wrong isn’t enough to save someone. Simply telling someone they should go see a doctor about that pain soon to start in their leg is — while not exactly pointless, — then certainly fruitless.

       So Hajime knows that one of the professors at his University is in the early stages of Parkinson and he knows that the old lady in the purple fur coat and orange crocs suffers from terrible arthritis and that the man running the perimeter of the park is a tight bundle of exhaustion and overexerted muscles and he says nothing.

       Because in the end, there is only so much the medical field can cure, and people have to be able to care for themselves, — has to know their own limits. He can’t save everyone, — that is the first lesson of the Iwaizumi family. People have to want to save themselves. It is a tough one to learn.

       Still, Hajime watches the man run, because his is the kind of sickness that needs watching, and Hajime frowns on the days when exhaustion is coupled with ignored hunger, and his eyes tighten when the shadow of an old knee injury hovers, and he has to stomp down the urge tackle the dumbass to the ground and force him to  _ sit down _ and  _ eat something _ dammit.

       So he comes here, to this park every morning, — well aware of the irony of his one daily cigarette, and he watches dawn come and go and feels the city come awake around him and he watches a stranger run himself ragged and then he gets up and goes to class.

 

ººº

 

So if Hajime’s upstairs neighbour had never acquired a dog, and if a road-maintenance truck hadn’t cut-off his usual route to school and if an oddly worded sign hadn’t caught his attention, then he would never have found the park hidden away in an odd pocket of small, Tokyo streets, — and he would not have been sitting on that bench waiting for the sun and an old lady in orange crocs to sweep the sidewalk, and he certainly would not have been frowning down at his wristwatch, waiting for an exhausted man to sprint his usual way across the peripheral of Hajime’s life.

       It is really just all happenstance — coincidence— that by the time the sun is up and the sky has lost its orange tint and the man has yet to run by, that Hajime  _ knows  _ something is wrong.

       He hesitates for a minute, wavering, rationalizing, because he doesn’t  _ really  _ know, in that way he doesn’t  _ really  _ know his father sneaks sweets at work or that his sister is cheating on her long-time boyfriend.

       But that’s the thing about knowing, — sometimes you just do.

       Hajime sets off down the street in a sprint, making educated guesses as to the other man’s usual route, peering down side streets and alleys as he goes. He doesn’t have to go far.

       The man is sitting at the side of the road, a harried-looking lady standing in front of him, yapping out questions. Her hands flail in aborted attempts to steady the man as he sways, looking dazed. Hajime only has to glance at him to know of the scraped knee and bloodied elbows and the mild concussion. He interrupts the lady’s frantic fiddling with her phone and tells her he knows the man and that he’ll take care of it. She looks relieved, grateful even, and then she scurries off, not waiting to see if he actually will.

       Hajime squats down in front of the guy and grabs his chin, forcing eye contact. Up close the guy is weirdly attractive — even sweaty, bloody and blurry-eyed he looks good in an intentionally polished sort of way. The fact that his hair is styled for such an obscenely early morning run strikes Hajime as particularly ridiculous.

       “Mm fine,” the guy slurs, his mouth hitching up in what must be a practiced blasé smile.

       “You’re concussed,” Hajime tells the guy, “I’m calling an ambulance.”

       He does.

       The guy blinks owlishly at Hajime, uncomprehending as his gaze seemingly zooms in and out of focus. “Don’t fall asleep,” Hajime snaps in between answering the paramedics questions.

       “Heeey,” the man whines, his speech still garbled, “You’re Park-kun.” He giggles. Hajime stares extra hard at the guy, trying to discern if maybe he missed some brain-damage after all. He didn’t. The guy is just an idiot by nature.

       “You’re gay right?” the blasé smile turns into a wobbly smirk, “’s okay, you can have my number.”

       “No thanks,” Hajime tells him flatly, because he already spends a disproportionate amount of time worrying over this stranger without the inevitable emotional attachment that comes with further acquaintance.  _ Dating _ this idiot would be a nightmare.

       The other man’s indignant protests are lost in the shrill of sirens as the ambulance arrives, the paramedics pulling out stretcher and neck brace and asking Hajime questions, pleased to learn that he is a med-student. He would have left then, — his duty done, — but a grazing of fingertips against his wrist and an overwhelmed — almost panicked — look in the other man’s eyes as the Paramedics load him into the vehicle makes Hajime get into the back of the ambulance, cursing himself as he realizes he is now certain to be late for all of his morning classes.

       The guy is named Oikawa Tooru, and his personality is, — as Hajime can now confidently attest to, — complete trash. He more or less flirts with everything that moves, — nurses, doctors, janitors, old ladies,— it doesn’t seem to matter who, everybody gets a blinding smile and a cheerful greeting. Ten minutes ago the guy hadn’t been able to coherently string ten words together and yet now here he is, waiting for a CAT scan and chatting up old Mrs Sato-san and cooing over pictures of her toy poodle Momo.  

       Of course none of this is actually incriminating, — in fact it might even be endearing, — if it wasn’t for the fact that Oikawa refuses to let Hajime  _ leave _ .

       (“ _ I need to go to class now, I’m glad you’re—“ _

_        “Park-kun, my phone broke, ~what will I do” _

_        “The hospital has—” _

_        “I can’t call my parents, — they live all the way over in Sendai, — I’ll be all alone. _

_        “I’m sure there’s—“ _

_        “Park-kun, you’re just going to  _ leave _? That’s so mean!” _

_        “Oi—” _

_        “I could die you know! Who’s going to tell my parents my last words?” _

_        “It was a mild concussion _ .”

_        “I’m getting a CAT-scan aren’t I? What if I fall asleep and there’s no one there to wake me!” _

_        “There’s nurses and—“ _

_        “Park-kun, you’re just going to leave me to die alone?” _

_        “It’s a hospital, not a hospice. And stop calling me—“ _

_        “Uwahh I’m too young to die~”) _

 

       “Oikawa Tooru,” a dispassionate nurse calls as she approaches, her eyes tiredly scanning a clipboard. Hajime wonders if she’s even capable of reading with the massive headache he can see swimming behind her eyes. “They are ready for you now, so if you’ll follow me please,” she barely looks up at Oikawa before she spins on her heel and heads back the way she came.

       “Right, yeah,” Oikawa casts a frantic glance at Hajime before standing. He looks wide-eyed and too pale which in turn automatically has Hajime on his feet and grabbing Oikawa’s shoulder to steady him. 

       “It’s just a minor concussion,” Hajime hears himself saying with too much certainly, — because it is true, — the concussion isn’t serious enough to warrant the levels of nausea Oikawa is displaying. “They’ll send you home without so much as a bottle of aspirin, just get it over with already so I can get to school.”

       Oikawa looks at him, too close, his mouth slightly parted. He looks so scared.

       “I promise,” Hajime hears himself saying, “You’ll be out of here in an hour. I guarantee it.” Oikawa nods, — a jerky motion that seems to unbalance him further, and then pulls away, his posture going ramrod straight as he turns and marches like a soldier after the retreating nurse, all the shakiness seemingly gone from his stride in an instant. Even Hajime might have been fooled were it not for dizzying cloud of exhaustion following Oikawa’s frame like a shadow.

       “Caught yourself a handsome one there, haven’t you,” Mrs Sato-san remarks, smiling up at Hajime with a glint in her eye. She adjusts her grip on her cane and leans back in the hard plastic waiting chair.

       “Oh, um,” Hajime fumbles, “we’re not—“

       “Oh hush now dear, none of that,” Sato-san taps her cane impatiently against the floor, “My Tadashi was a the same you know, he didn’t think an old lady like myself would understand. Nonsense, I told him, I am his mother; I don’t care who he sees so long as it is someone he isn’t ashamed to bring home. Now they come every Sunday for dinner, rain or shine. My neighbour Mrs Hiroshi can’t claim the same for her sons.” Sato-san looks extraordinarily pleased by this fact.

       “That’s nice,” Hajime can feel a blush creeping up his neck, “but I—,”

       “Now you listen to me,” she continues as if uninterrupted, “You watch that Tooru-kun of yours carefully for me you hear? He used to come here every week, chatting up all us old ladies, pretending he didn’t hobble worse than a duck out of water. And he’s a passionate one, no mistake, but he needs a firm shake now and again.”

       “Oh I know,” Hajime says darkly, picturing a silhouette of buzzing static and exhaustion sprinting through a park at the crack of dawn.

       “Good,” Sato-san says, nodding, then eyes him suspiciously, “You have a job? I told my Tadashi a man ain’t worth keeping if he doesn’t help pay the bills.”

       “I’m a med student,” Hajime answers automatically before his brain recognises the question for what it is and files a complaint; he’s never been interrogated by a nosy old lady playing potential-in-law before, so he isn’t really sure what to do.

       “Oh a doctor!” Sato-san smiles, wide and gummy, it makes her seem less forbidding, “Tooru-kun outdid himself didn’t he.” Her enthusiasm makes Hajime feel a little hollow.

       “Sato-san?” a nurse pushes a wheelchair in between Hajime and his interrogator, “the doctor will see you know.”

       Hajime watches them leave, Sato-san seated in the wheelchair and rambling on about her son in clipped, approving tones. She has water in her feet and an unsteady heart to match; it is serious enough to require regular check-ups and probably a daily bucket of assorted pills. Hajime knows it is just a matter of getting old, but he still wishes he hadn’t seen.

 

ººº

 

       Despite himself, Hajime ends up waiting for Oikawa to reappear, — the memory of fear in the other man’s eyes keeping him seated in the Hospital’s uncomfortable chairs like he had been nailed there. Silently, he resolves himself to missing his lecture; he’ll probably have to talk to the professor about lab time but surely he’ll live — his attendance hasn’t been  _ that _ bad. In a fit of productivity, he even digs his textbook out of his bag but doesn’t open it, his eyes instead catching on a week’s old cinema review magazine.

       When Hajime next looks up, it is to find Oikawa hovering in the doorway. To his credit, Oikawa looks surprised to see Hajime still sitting there, his brown eyes large and his mouth hanging open.

       “They clear you?” Hajime asks, despite already knowing the answer and then lets a smirk worm itself onto his lips, liking the way it makes Oikawa visibly startle.

       “Yeah, they did,” Oikawa manages, eyes following Hajime’s hands as he stuffs his books back into his bag and stands. Oikawa hasn’t yet moved from the doorway.

       “Well?” Hajime raises an eyebrow. He is itching to get out of the hospital, “are you coming?”

       Oikawa nods slowly, something unreadable in his eyes as he abandons his post in the doorway and comes to walk beside Hajime instead. The silence drags on for a few seconds too long. Oikawa opens his mouth; something guarded moving behind his eyes, but then he closes it again, and whatever he was going to say remains unsaid.

       They step out of the Hospital, and Hajime immediately flags down a taxi, gesturing for Oikawa to get in as the door opens. The other man just stares at him.

       “Park-kun, people usually ask a guy out for coffee first,” Oikawa says, blinking owlishly. Hajime has to press his mouth into a line to keep his temper in check.

       “I’m sending you home,” Hajime says, aiming for neutral and mostly succeeding, “You concussed yourself this morning, which means no exercise for the next 24 hours at least,” Hajime gestures to the taxi again, “hence the car. And stop calling me Park-kun, my name is Iwaizumi Hajime.”

       “Well, Haji—,”

_        “No _ .”

       “Iwa-chan,” Oikawa amends, unconcerned by Hajime’s continuous death glare, “are you stalking me?”

       “ _ What _ ?” the word comes out bone-dry.

       “It’s okay, Iwa-chan, you can have my number no problem, I don’t mind~”

       Hajime looks away, rubs a hand over his eyes, then tries squinting at Oikawa but the guy still isn’t making any damn sense. Frankly, he is sort of pissing Hajime off big time.

       Oikawa opens his mouth again to speak — presumably to spout more nonsense, — but Hajime isn’t having it.

       “Shut up,” he barks, holding up a hand. Oikawa blinks. “You’re an idiot, you know that?   Ever heard of a fucking rest day? Because your body needs those regularly or you’re going to smash your brains out on the pavement for real one day, and I won’t be there to pick you up when it happens.”

       Oikawa gapes at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Hajime, —pissed off as he is, — takes a petty sort of pleasure from how vapid Oikawa looks.

       “You—“ Oikawa begins, his voice rising in indignation, but Hajime cuts him off.

       “Shut up and get in,” Hajime points to the Taxi’s open door. By some miracle, Oikawa actually complies, looking stunned.

       “You’re pretty bossy,” Oikawa remarks as he settles onto the backseat of the taxi, leaving one foot out on the pavement as if to anchor himself there.

       “I’m not,” Hajime snaps, even though people have been telling him as much ever since he was a kid. Most say it with contempt. “Just go home and rest,” he kicks at Oikawa’s foot with his boot, forcing the other man to climb all the way into the taxi.

       “You’re  _ really _ bossy,” Oikawa amends, looking amused.

       “Am not,” Hajime insists and grits his teeth. He looks away, then back. Grabs the car door. “And stop skipping breakfast,” he barks, “It ticks me off.” He slams the door shut before Oikawa can pick that apart, and stalks away, fists buried in his pockets and his shoulders hunched.

       He shouldn’t have said that. He should just have left and gone to class. That would have been the smart, non-stalkery thing to do.

       Not that he regrets it.

 

ººº

 

       “What’s with the face?” Hajime’s neighbour stands leaning back against the balustrade with a cigarette between his teeth. The guy is a mess of long limbs and wild black hair, and he’s the nosiest fucker Hajime has had to deal with in a long time.

       “What face?” Hajime grunts, shrugging past his neighbour to get to his apartment door. The building’s gallery is narrow enough for Hajime to catch a strong whiff of marabou menthol. It is late, and the sky is lit only by the city’s own pollution. Above him, the gallery’s fluorescent lights flicker tiredly with age, turning the bare, concrete walls a sickly yellow. Hajime is bone tired; he never gets enough sleep.

       “That face,” the guy says, and gestures with his cigarette, “You look particularly grumpy tonight. Did you break any hearts today, hot stuff? Is that it? You seem like the type to mope about stupid shit like that.”

       “Smoking will kill you,” Hajime tells him just to be an asshole, and digs through his pockets for his keys.

       “Bad lay then?” the guy guesses, then quirks and eyebrow. “Or  _ no lay _ , more likely. I got to say man, that’s a tragedy. Quality meat like yourself denying the rest of us.”

       “Go fuck yourself.”

       “Don’t need to, I have a boyfriend for that,” the guy taps his ashes out over the balustrade and down into Hiroshi-san’s peonies. “I’m just saying man, there’s no reason for you to be alone.”

       The key fits into the lock seamlessly and Hajime yanks open the door. The maw of his apartment yawns dark and hostile. He steps in and shuts the door in his neighbour’s pitying face.

 

ººº

 

       It is raining outside when Hajime wakes up, the tapping against his single window a low hum. The building is strangely quiet, — not even the neighbour’s dog is barking yet. The green glow of his alarm tells him it is five minutes to five. Hajime sighs and rolls over onto his back, rubbing at his eyes as he tries to dispel the last traces of an already receding dream. His chest feels heavy, his throat clogged, the skin around his eyes is wet and stiff with salt.

       Sometimes, Hajime is thankful that he sleeps alone. It is easier this way.

       He lies there for a few, long minutes as he stares up at his dark, colourless ceiling, breathing, contemplating the spider web in the corner. He should clean more often, he thinks, distractedly, already knowing he probably won’t get around to it for another week or so.

       Then he gets up and puts the kettle on. It gurgles pleasantly as he fiddles with his rice cooker.

       Hajime rarely goes to the park when it rains because it means sitting on a wet bench and watching the heavy grey clouds grow marginally lighter. Today however, the lonely dimness if his apartment feels cloying and overwhelming so he shuffles on his boots and his jacket and digs out an umbrella. It is just that kind of day, he thinks, as the neighbour’s dog starts yapping.

       Outside, the air smells clean and sharp but the city seems washed out, — grey and dull as it slumbers. He trudges along, leaning the umbrella against his shoulder as he tries to keep his bag from getting wet.

       He dodges a spray of water from a car as it zooms past, too quick, the early hour freeing up enough space on the roads for speeding. His free hand is curled in his pocket, and he walks with his head down, watching his feet for puddles.

       He feels hollow today, washed out like the weather. Heavy. He wishes he had more cigarettes left.

       A body bumps into his and he stumbles.

       “Ow—  _ watch it— _ wait, Iwa-chan?”

       Hajime looks up into a pair of brown eyes.

       Oikawa has his hood up, his hair swept back and hidden beneath its lip. The shadows beneath Oikawa eyes are stark against the thin, paleness of his skin.

       “Oikawa?” Hajime blinks at him, and then looks down. Oikawa is wearing running shoes. The sight of it makes Hajime feel tired. “You—,” he begins, the word ‘ _ idiot’  _ on his tongue just as a car hits a pothole and sends a wave of dirty, brown water over them both.

       They stand there, soaked.

       “Gross,” Oikawa says and picks at the wet fabric of his pants, wrinkling his nose, “I’m beginning to think you bring bad luck, Iwa-chan.”

       “Oi,” Hajime protests, trying to brush water from his bag with one hand and wielding the umbrella with the other, “You fell on your own yesterday, if anything, you bring  _ me _ bad luck.” Oikawa huffs and rolls his eyes, then quirks a smile.

       “You want to go grab some coffee and warm up somewhere, or are you going to turn me down again?”

       The words ‘no thanks’ are on the tip of Hajime’s tongue. Not because he doesn’t want coffee or because he doesn’t have the time, but because Oikawa is exactly the kind of person he shouldn’t have in his life; heedless, irresponsible, rapidly driving himself towards some permanent injury.

       “Yeah alright,” Hajime says and thinks,  _ ‘at least he won’t be out running if he’s with me.’ _

       A grin catches on Oikawa’s lips and lights up his eyes. “Great!” he says, and ducks under Hajime’s umbrella uninvited. “I know a great place nearby that opens early.”

 

ººº 

 

       The place in question turns out to be an incoherent little café located just around the corner from where Hajime lives. It sells international sports magazines, hotdogs and coffee in that order, and apparently opens well before six. Oikawa greets the storeowner with familiarity, earning a grunt and a curt ‘the usual then?’ from the shady looking thirty-something-year-old manning the register.

       Hajime orders coffee, black no sugar, and winces in sympathy at the man’s chronic insomnia, — a dark, bone-deep exhaustion slowing the man’s movements and blurring his sight.

       “How’s the head?” Hajime asks Oikawa politely as they settle down into a pair of plush, mismatched chairs, Oikawa nursing his soy-latte and fiddling with the bobby pins that formerly kept his hair tucked under his hood.

       “Fine,” Oikawa lies with a half-smile, shrugging, “Like you said, I barely even had a headache when I got home yesterday.” Hajime nods solemnly and tires not to see the swelling of a bump under the careful mess of brown hair or the angry scrapes over Oikawa’s elbows. “I’ve had worse anyway,” Oikawa continues, as if that makes it better. His smile has morphed into something blasé.

       “Sports?” Hajime guesses, unimpressed. He has never been a fan of injuries.

       “I play first string on the Chuo Volleyball team,” Oikawa says and grins, a tad too intent, “I’m still just a pinch hitter but I’ll get there. You ever played?”

       “I did for a while in middle school, but I switched sports a lot. Nothing stuck,” Hajime looks down into his coffee. He hates feeling this awkward, — he isn’t a very awkward person in general. It is just that, well, this feels like a date, — probably  _ is  _ a date by all standards. He isn’t really sure what to do with that knowledge. 

       “I think you said you were a med student yesterday,” Oikawa gestures to Hajime’s T.U sweatshirt visible under his coat, “Iwa-chan, you must be pretty smart on top of being a bully. Who’d have guessed?”

       “Are you trying to piss me off?” Hajime abruptly forgets to be awkward and narrows his eyes at Oikawa, “go on, I bet I could take your pro athlete ass in fight.”

       “Oh yeah?” Oikawa smirks, “what kind of fight?”

       “If the two of you are done flirting,” the Café owner drawls, having walked up to their table with the receipt in his hand, “you might want to get your asses to school about now. It’s almost eight o’clock.”

       Oikawa lets out a startled noise and bolts out of his chair, “Ukai-kun why didn’t you say something sooner, I’m going to be late for morning practice!”

       “I’m not your damn babysitter, Oikawa,” the café owner grumbles and heads back to the counter.  Oikawa casts a frantic look between Hajime and the door.

       “Sorry Iwa-chan, duty calls. I’ll see you around alright?”

       Hajime watches Oikawa dash out of the café, resigned. ‘ _ You can’t save everyone _ ,’ he reminds himself, ‘ _ People have to be able to care for themselves.’ _

       “Damn kid’s a lousy date,” the café owner remarks, interrupting Hajime’s brooding. He gestures to the receipt still on the table, “left you with the bill.”

       “It’s okay,” Hajime says and sighs because he had hoped to avoid living off rice and soy for the rest of the month but it was a thin hope to begin with. “It wasn’t really a date anyway.”

       “Uhuh,” the man says sceptically, “Shouldn’t you be heading out as well? The day isn’t getting any younger.”

       “My first lecture starts at nine,” Hajime says and throws back the last dregs of his coffee. His clothes feel damp and itchy against his skin and he will probably have to go back home and change before heading to school.

       “If your lecture is at nine, then what the hell are you doing up before the ass crack of dawn? Are you crazy? What’s wrong with you?”

       “Um.” Hajime blinks, he had assumed an insomniac would understand a thing or two about irregular sleeping patterns. “I have noisy neighbours,” he tries, which earns him a derisive grunt.

       “Get out of here kid. Leave the bill, the coffee is on the house.”

       “Thanks,” Hajime says, slightly perplexed and stands, hefting his bag over his shoulder.

       “Oikawa usually shows up here on Thursdays around five to buy milk bread, ” the café owner says just as Hajime is about to leave, one hand poised on the doorknob. “I thought you might like to know that. You know, in case you wanted to make him pay me back for the coffee.”  

       Hajime stares at the man, surprised and slightly incredulous. Lately it seems like every stranger he meets is secretly out to meddle in his life.

       “You don’t sell milk bread,” Hajime points out, mostly to avoid answering whether he’ll show up or not.

       “I do on Thursdays,” the café owner snaps and scowls at Hajime, “What, you think I sell the same thing all week? I’d bore myself to death if I did.”

       “Right…” Hajime hovers for a moment more the doorway, uncertain, “Thanks again for the coffee.”

       The storeowner waves him off, looking annoyed. “I’ll see you Thursday,” he calls after Hajime just as the door shuts behind him.

 

ººº 

 

       By the time Hajime has changed into dry clothes and dragged himself to his first lecture, he has made up his mind about Thursday. He isn’t going and that is the end of it.

       It doesn’t matter that Oikawa is stupidly attractive or that Hajime’s brain has been replaying the last twenty-four hours on a constant loop in what Hajime can only assume is a preliminary symptom of an embarrassing, all-consuming crush. 

       Getting involved with Oikawa? Hell, he knew from the beginning it was a bad idea, — better to cut his losses now before he gets disappointed. He tries to convince himself this doesn’t make him a coward.

       A careful tap on his shoulder interrupts his internal debate.

       “Um, excuse me?”

       A girl is leaning forward from the row behind him. She has straight black hair and dark eyes. She smiles shyly as Hajime turns to blink at her. “You’re Iwaizumi right? I’m Atsuko Maeda. We had a class together last semester…” she falters slightly as Hajime continues to stare at her blankly, “Immunology?” she prompts.

       ”Oh right,” he scours his brain but still can’t quite place her, “Sorry, I’m not the best with names.”

       “Oh no, that’s alright,” her smile has turned a little strained but she forges on, “A group of us are going to a game later, and we were wondering…” she bites her lower lip, “Um, we were wondering if maybe you’d like to come?”

       “Oh, uh,” Hajime flounders.

       Atsuko jumps in before he can think to formulate a proper answer.

       “It’s alright of course, if you’re busy,” she rambles, “It’s just that, well, I—  _ we _ noticed you haven’t come to any of the mixers and I thought maybe those kinds of events just weren’t your thing you know? Which is fine, of course, but we’d really like to get to know you anyway so—“

       “I’ll go,” Hajime says, mostly to make her take a deep breath, but also because she is exactly his type, with her naturally straight black hair, short stature and lack of buzzing, chronic state of overexertion. He definitely isn’t overcompensating. “A game sounds fun.”

       “Great!” she beams at him, showing off a set of deep, well-maintained dimples.

       “What are we watching?” Hajime askes, and while he admittedly has woeful little knowledge of what goes on on campus, it still comes as a surprise when Atsuko looks at him like he is speaking pig Latin.

       “Volleyball of course,” she says, “T.U is playing Chuo today.”

       “Of course we are,” Hajime says, keeping his polite smile in check, and thinks, _ ‘of course we are.’ _

 

ººº

 

       The gymnasium is a large, well-lit affair with raised tribunes lining the walls. Below, the T.U volleyball team is warming up, running drills with well-practised efficiency.

       They find vacant seats with some difficulty, settling for a row almost all the way towards the back in the wrong end of the court, surrounded by students who have obviously come to cheer for Chuo. It isn’t an official match, but seems like half the city has shown up to watch anyway.

       Hajime sits down besides Atsuko, smiling at her enthusiasm as she gushes about volleyball statistics and the upcoming preliminaries. He lets her chatter flow over him and does his best to ignore the plethora of meaningful looks and smirks being passed around by the rest of their group. Atsuko doesn’t have the subtlest of friends.

       “Here comes Chuo,” Atsuko says, just as a roar of noise rises up from crowd round them. The Chou volleyball team file in, dressed in red, Hajime spots Oikawa amongst them almost immediately, his curly brown hair setting him apart from the rest.

       “They have won the All-Japan the three last years in a row,” Atsuko sighs, leaning out of her seat to better see the gymnasium floor, “But in a training match they’ll probably have their less experienced players on the starting line-up, so we might stand a chance.”

       Oikawa is grinning, jostling a few of the other players as they pass him and setting up fast, precise tosses for his teammates to spike across the court. He seems to have the younger players in hand, — their heads turning automatically to him despite there being a few obviously older players out on the court.

       “That’s Oikawa Tooru,” Atsuko informs him, following his gaze, “I grew up in the same prefecture as him. He was a really big deal back in Miyagi so I guess it makes sense that Chuo recruited him. I think he was voted best all-round player two years in a row in high school.”

       “That good huh?” Hajime says, feeling sheepish for getting caught staring at Oikawa.

       “Oh yeah,” Atsuko nods, “half the prefecture had a crush on him.” She says this with the beginnings of blush colouring her cheeks, biting her lower lip like she’s sharing a secret, “I think he’s a little too flashy though, you know? It’s sort of like having a crush on a Kpop idol; good to look at from a distance, but you’d really rather date someone more down to earth.”

       “I’m sure he looks good close up too,” Hajime blurts before his brain filter can work its magic, and he snaps his mouth shut, slightly horrified with himself. Atsuko just laughs.

       “I wouldn’t know,” she says, grinning, and directs his attention to the court where the two teams have lined up to begin playing.

       Hajime sits transfixed as the first volley begins, taken aback by the rapid procession of the game. Oikawa is playing setter, controlling his own side of the net with a fluid series of gestures and tosses and misleading his opponents with well-timed feints.

       ‘ _ I’ll get there,’  _ Oikawa had said just this morning, bemoaning his usual spot as pinch-hitter, but Hajime has a hard time seeing how Oikawa isn’t already there.

       “Damn,” Atsuko says, clenching her fists as the Chuo fans around them scream in approval. The first set ends 16-23 in Chou’s favour. “I guess asking Chuo to go easy on us was too much to ask for.”

       “We haven’t lost yet,” Hajime reminds her, which earns him a smile. Beneath them on the floor, Oikawa is waving up at Chuo fans and spinning a ball expertly in one hand. Hajime shrinks slightly in his seat, suddenly irrationally afraid of being spotted in the crowd. For some reason he would rather not examine, just the thought of Oikawa seeing him here makes him cringe.

       “Well there goes our team morale,” Atsuko says with a sigh as Oikawa moves to make the first serve, “Look at his foot work, he’s going to bust out his jump serve now.”

       Oikawa runs three perfectly measured steps and jumps, slamming the ball home on the other side of the court with so much power the sound of it seems to resonate through the gymnasium. Hajime almost misses it, but there is a spike of static as Oikawa lands, — a small burst of pain lacing its way up Oikawa’s side.

       “That idiot,” Hajime exclaims before he can stop himself,  and finding himself on his feet.

       “What?” Atsuko looks up at him, startled.

       “He hasn’t warmed his knee up enough,” Hajime grits out, scowling down at the court, “Look at his landing, he’s going to injure himself if he does that again.” Atsuko peers down at Oikawa and frowns.

       “Really? It looked alright to me.” Hajime is suddenly reminded that most people can’t see what he can.

       “He wobbled,” Hajime says lamely, and sits back down. Atsuko gives him a sceptical look and then frowns down at the court again where Oikawa is preparing his second serve.

       Hajime watches with growing agitation as Oikawa slams home four more points, twitching every time Oikawa lands and silently praying for the play to end without incident.  

       “I’m going to go look for a bathroom,” Hajime says as T.U finally manages to receive the ball, and hurries out, unable to sit there and watch for a minute more. Out in the hall, the air is considerably cooler, and he slumps against the wall, promising himself he will go back inside in a few minutes.

       Slowly, he slides down the wall until he is sitting on the floor. He counts his breaths but his heart is taking its sweet time slowing down from its frantic hammering. That same hollow feeling from this morning is back, — worse now, — tinged with a sense of inevitability and dawning resignation. He gets it now, having seen Oikawa play. He gets why Oikawa goes to such extremes, and he hates that he gets it.

       It would have been easier to hate an obsession, to look at Oikawa, — tired, and overworked — and hate the impulse that made him so. But passion? Hajime can’t fault him for passion, just recklessness. It was easier to just be angry.

       Hajime drags a hand down over his face, closing his eyes. He should be getting back inside, but he doesn’t have the will to make himself stand up and do it.

       “Hey, are you okay?” Atsuko crouches down in front of him, sounding concerned, “You didn’t look so good when you left so I thought I’d come check on you.” 

       “Sorry,” Hajime says, embarrassed, and moves to stand but Atsuko gestures for him to stay sitting. “You’re missing the game.”

       “That’s okay.” Atsuko says with a smile and settles down beside him, leaning against the wall. ”We lost the second set anyway. No way are we winning this one.”

       Hajime manages a smile, but it feels thin. He tries to think of something to say that doesn’t include an explanation as to why he’s out here in the hall.

       “Hey, how come you know so much about volleyball anyway? You never said,”

       “Sorry, I’ve been gushing haven’t I?” Atsuko smiles apologetically, “I played for two years back in high school. We almost got to nationals, too, but then I busted my elbow.” Her fingers brush against her left arm as if on reflex, “After that, I guess I just gave up on it, and started focusing on school instead. I still like to watch though,” she grins, unashamed.

       Hajime can see it now, the dead nerve endings and the place where the sinew has reknitted itself slightly wrong. It isn’t that serious, — just enough to make rehabilitation a long and gruelling task, and certainly enough to ruin a budding high school volleyball career.

       Hajime thinks it says more about him, really, that he hadn’t noticed at all before she told him.

       “I think I should go home,” he says slowly, feeling wretched. “I’m sorry,” he offers and means it.

       “Don’t worry about it,” Atsuko shrugs, “I’m just thankful I got a chance to talk to you, seeing as I’ve had a crush on you since first semester started.” She gets smoothly to her feet and starts dusting off her jeans.

       Hajime blinks up at her but he can’t pretend he didn’t notice. She smiles at him, waving off his reply before he can even begin to formulate a way to let her down.

       “I know, I know. We didn’t click, — it happens. I can stop having a crush on you now.”

       “That’s…” he trails off. Her words resonate oddly inside him; he thinks she might be onto something there.

       “Wildly amazing and incredibly wholesome of me?” she suggests with a grin, “I’m going to go back in and watch our team get obliterated now. Will you be okay to go home?”

       “Yeah,” Hajime says, “I’ll be fine.”

       He thinks that might have been a lie.

 

ººº

 

       When Hajime steps into the small, mismatched café just past five pm that Thursday, he is greeted by the long, straight line of Oikawa’s back leaning against the café counter where he is chatting amiably with the owner. Hajime stops short in the doorway, caught there with one foot in and one foot out, his brain flooding with the sudden knowledge that he really had not planned any of this out beyond showing up. For a split second, he contemplates turning around and walking away, but then the owner spots him over Oikawa’s shoulder and nods, which of course causes Oikawa to turn around as well.

       “Iwa-chan!” something lights up in Oikawa’s eyes and pulls Hajime the rest of the way inside. “What are you doing here?”

       “I um…” The storeowner is smirking at him from behind the counter, “I heard this place sells milk bread on Thursdays.”

       “It does! Ukai-kun bakes them himself!” Oikawa chirps, his eyes flickering between Hajime and the café owner suspiciously. Hajime tries to reassure himself that the soft, pleased smile curling the line of Oikawa’s mouth does not mean he has been figured out.

       “One or two rolls then?” Ukai drawls, arching one eyebrow in profound judgement.

       “Just one,” Hajime walks mechanically to the counter and digs out his wallet, he throws a dirty look at the café owner for good measure.

       Oikawa apparently decides to take pity on him.

       “I was going to take a walk and enjoy the good weather,” Oikawa makes a vague gesture to the cloudy, smog-filled sky outside, “want to join me?”

       “Yes,” Hajime says a little too quickly, “That sounds nice.”

       “Make good choices boys!” Ukai calls after them as they leave, and they both hurry out the store before the he can think to say something worse.

       Hajime takes note of the way Oikawa’s blush creeps all the way down his neck from his ears, and he tries not to fixate on the slight limp Oikawa lets slip as he walks.

       “Crazy old man,” Oikawa mutters, “I swear that guy doesn’t get enough sleep.”

       “He doesn’t,” Hajime says, and then pointedly looks away as Oikawa side-eyes him.

       “Ookay,” Oikawa huffs a laugh, “I won’t ask, but don’t think I haven’t noticed your creepy stalking skills, Iwa-chan.”

       “I don’t’ stalk people.”

       “Mind reading, then. Or, —  _ oh _ — are you secretly an alien?”

       “Are you secretly an idiot?” Hajime mimics and promptly realizes why he never had a girlfriend in high school. He has so little game it is practically in the negative. What is wrong with him?

       Oikawa just grins, wide and happy. It makes Hajime a little dizzy.

       “So what else do you do Iwa-chan? Besides stalking and bullying random people you find lying on the sidewalks.”

       “Nothing much,” Hajime shrugs, feeling self-conscious, “I take photos sometimes, but they never turn out quite right. I’m pretty sure that means I’m not all that good at it.”

       “Hmmm,” Oikawa glances at him, contemplative, and it looks like he might be on the verge of saying something, but then he shakes his head — the motion minute, a tiny dismissal of a thought. “So are you even going to eat that?” he says instead and points to the milk bread in Hajime’s hand.

       Hajime pauses and looks down at the neat, bakery-style wrapper and then spends a few seconds contemplating how much he actually values his pride.

       “Here,” he says, shoving the bread at Oikawa, “No way I’m eating that, it’s like 90 per cent sugar.”

       “Ha! I knew it,” Oikawa grins so wide it is almost scary and rips open the wrapper.

       “Shut up,” Hajime huffs.

       “I bet you don’t even like sweets,” Oikawa crackles, “You’re really just an old salty man on the inside aren’t you, Iwa-chan.”

       “By that logic you’re really a pre-schooler. A trashy milk-bread-eating pre-schooler.” Oikawa’s indignant squawk is somewhat muted by half the loaf he has shoved in his mouth.

       A cold drop of water hits Hajime’s nose, and he looks up just in time to catch another one in his eye. Oikawa looks up as well, grimacing. Above them, the clouds have turned an ominous back.

       “That looks bad,” Oikawa says, looking mildly apprehensive. Another few, heavy drops colour the sidewalk a mottled, uneven grey. Then the sky opens above them.

       “Come on!” Hajime pulls Oikawa behind him and they break into a run down the street, Hajime trying to be mindful of Oikawa’s knee as he sets the pace. They are only a block or so from his apartment so he wastes no time directing them towards the building as they run, bowing their heads against the onslaught of rain.

       The gallery is blessedly free of annoying neighbours as Iwaizumi leads Oikawa up the stairs to his floor. The dullness of the afternoon sharpens Hajime's senses and Oikawa leans against the wall, — close, — waiting for him to unlock the door with a certain sense of quiet impatience.

       The door swings open, and Hajime has just time enough to remember he hasn't cleaned in neigh on two weeks, before Oikawa bounds inside, switching on the light before Hajime can think to.

       Hajime stands there on the threshold, looking in, the light cutting slightly at his eyes as they adjust. Something warm curls in his stomach as he steps inside.

       Oikawa has already retreated to the bathroom, pulling off his wet coat and hanging it up over the bathtub. Water drips steadily down onto the tiles, — a soft patter of noise in the enclosed space.

       Hajime digs out two clean towels from the bottom of his closet, throwing one at Oikawa as the other man shakes his head like a dog. It hits with a dull, satisfying  _ thump. _

       “You’re such a brute,” Oikawa complains, but reaches for Hajime’s coat and hangs it up for him, smiling, fretting when it refuses to stay hanging on the showerhead.

       “Come on, just leave it. It’ll dry on it’s own,” he says and shuffles Oikawa out of the frankly cramped bathroom and into the maw of his messy, one room apartment. “You want tea?”

       "Yeah sure. Are these your photos?" Oikawa asks, leaning over Hajime's desk. A bunch of medical textbooks lie stacked on the table's surface, mostly untouched or wilfully neglected, but Oikawa's quick eyes has spotted his small stack of pictures carefully laid to one side

       Oikawa holds one up, catching the light of a nearby lamp in its glossy surface.

       "It's good," Oikawa breathes. The one is his hand is a picture of the city skyline, caught in the first blazes of dawn. Down in the corner, an old lady in orange Crocs sweeps the sidewalk her figure blurred, — crossed out and jagged. Hajime moves to stand beside Oikawa, mugs held in his hands.

       "You've edited these," Oikawa says, squinting, flipping to the next one to reveal a silhouette of white static, caught at the edges of a park just past dawn.

       Hajime shrugs. He had tried to capture what the worlds looks like to him, — tired to convey the fuzzy malice of severe arthritis, or the headache inducing noise of straining, tired muscles. He isn't sure he likes the results though. The thinks maybe he likes it better when he doesn’t have to see. It is too bad he can’t edit life.

       Oikawa puts the pictures down, perhaps sensing Hajime's mood, and instead his eyes snag on the DVD collection stuffed in the corner of the room. Hajime tires not to groan as Oikawa's soft smile turns mischievous.

       "Iwa-chan you're a Kaiju buff!” Oikawa pulls out Hajime’s old VHS edition of ‘Son of Godzilla’ from the bottom of the pile and makes a face.

       “It’s a classic,” Hajime mutters defensively.

       “'Godzilla vs. the Destroyer’ was better,” Oikawa says and picks out another movie from the pile. He blinks at it, then stands up and flips open Hajime’s DVD player, slotting the disk in.

       “Are you…?”

       “Not going home until it stops raining?” Oikawa suggests, snatching one of the mugs out of Hajime’s hands and sits down on his bed, “No, I am definitely not.” Hajime snorts a laugh and settles down beside Oikawa.

       “You know this movie had an insanely low budget right?”

       “Shut up, it’s starting,” Oikawa says, elbowing Hajime in the ribs as the 80’s styled horror movie theme starts playing.

       It is startling how easy it all feels. How natural. It is all he can think about as Godzilla starts his slow trek of destruction through Akihabara. They did a decent job of the laser beams in this particular version, — even if the main lead is a bit of a dud.

       Oikawa is warm against Hajime’s side — overwhelmingly close as he quietly grumbles over the lack of aliens as the main antagonists. Oikawa has a shoulder pressed against Hajime’s chest, — the back of his head resting against Hajime’s shoulder.

       Godzilla roars defiantly as the first bombs are thrown onto its back.

       Hajime’s arm fits snug around Oikawa waist, he hadn’t been sure it would but it does. Oikawa leans further into him, angling his torso a little so that Hajime can see the brown of his eyes and the upward tilt of his mouth. It is so easy to just—

       Oikawa lips are warm and soft but not careful.

       “You’re such a dork,” Oikawa mutters, leaning away just an inch, but he is smiling, teeth glinting white, unguarded. Then he shifts, hooks a leg over Hajime’s, — tangling their limbs further as he leans back in.

       The angle is better now; Oikawa tastes like Hajime’s cheap green tea and a little too sweet like Milk Bread. A hand tickles the short hairs at Hajime’s nape. On screen, Godzilla tears down Tokyo Tower and people flee the city in droves.

       The apartment feels full, — like a home, for once. On the other side of the wall, someone bangs a door shut too hard and one of Hajime’s picture frames loses its grip on its hook. The picture is a photo of Hajime, five years old and flanked by his parents, holding a custom made stethoscope in his hands. The child stares out, wide-eyed and afraid. The frame lands in a pile of laundry, unharmed but now hidden. It makes the room seem less cold.

       Neither of them notice though, — they are too preoccupied with finding handholds under shirts, their palms seeking skin. The movie credits are rolling when Hajime finally gets a hand under Oikawa’s waistband, gripping his hip, tipping them both over and stretching out on the bed. He kisses the skin of Oikawa’s stomach, enjoying the salt on his lips, and liking the way the static in his head seems to dim when he makes his way back up to catch Oikawa’s mouth. He lets his hand wander down further, beneath the cotton of Oikawa’s underwear, fingertips meeting the hot skin there.

       It feels electric, safe, and unhurried as they shed their clothes, toeing off socks and fumbling with buttons. It takes a few, long minutes to dig out the bottle of lube which provides Oikawa with just enough time to crack a lame joke about balls and make a grab at Hajime’s ass. It makes Hajime laugh despite himself, — makes the slotting together of hips that much sweeter, and the inevitable jerk of an elbow to the face seem less offensive.

 

ººº

 

       Hajime wakes up with no air in his lungs.

       He jerks awake gasping, crawling up onto his elbows and heaves in oxygen. The sheets are too warm, — oppressive. Oikawa is a heavy presence slumbering next to him, — just a mess of brown hair and the tip of a nose peeking out beneath a mountain of covers.

       Slowly, Hajime extracts himself, ignoring the light of his alarm reading 4:50 like a traitor. He stands in the middle of the room, breathing, a hand pressed to his chest. He’s gotten too old for this shit, he thinks, annoyed. He’s too old for night terrors and crying in his sleep; too old for this constant state passivity.

       The last vestiges of the dream linger, — fogging his mind and making him feel trapped and terrified. He needs more air he decides, and grabs his shoes and a sweater from a pile on the floor. A picture frame jostles and clatters uneasily as the clothes under it are disturbed; a crack runs smooth from one corner of the glass to another.

       Outside, morning is still a pale thing, — still too young and new for more than a purple lightening of the horizon. It seems to Hajime, that the world is a little wider today, — a little larger. For once it doesn’t make him feel small.

       His feet take him towards the tiny, forgotten park where a fat yellow tabby and a lady in orange crocs and purple fur are starting their day well ahead of the rest of the city. Then he pauses, — his feet slowing until they come to a final standstill on the sidewalk. Behind him, up in his tiny, messy apartment, Oikawa is probably still sleeping. Probably still warm and soft under the covers. Hajime realizes he doesn’t even know why he is heading towards the park. Nothing is waiting for him there.

       He wastes a few long minutes just standing there, feeling adrift, or perhaps the opposite really — tentatively moored to something for the first time since he moved out of the family home. Back then it had been a relief, but lately nothing has felt quite right.

       He turns around, suddenly determined. He’ll go back, wake Oikawa up, maybe make him breakfast and actually get his number. Hajime has been overthinking all this, he decides — he's been thinking too far ahead. There's no shame in just seeing where things goes right? Maybe if he is careful and patient he can get Oikawa to cut back on the morning runs a bit, — use a few more minutes warming up. Maybe if Hajime becomes comfortable enough, he'll tell Oikawa the real reason why he edits his photographs, — why his family's occupation has by tradition always gravitated towards medical work. Maybe.

       His feet take him homewards, back up the narrow Tokyo streets. He has walked further than he realized but soon the apartment building looms back into view and he climbs the stairs two steps at a time. Behind him, glancing off the city skyline, the sun paints the horizon scarlet.

       He can hear the faint yapping of a dog behind his neighbour’s door. Experience tells him that the angry, grating sound is guaranteed to be louder inside his own apartment where only a flimsy wall serves to keep out the noise. The realization that he must have been gone longer than he thought brings with it a pang of foreboding.

       The gallery is empty, and he approaches his apartment door with trepidation, biting the inside of his cheek as he slowly lets himself in.

       He finds Oikawa standing in the middle of the room, dressed and with his back to Hajime. He is bowed over something in his hands, but Oikawa straightens when he hears the door click shut, and whatever he is holding makes a soft  _ thud _ as it lands on the bed. Oikawa’s shoulders straighten, the line of them hardening.

       Even with his back turned, Hajime can tell Oikawa is angry. Well shit.

       Oikawa mistakes Hajime’s hesitation for displeasure. He turns abruptly and the hard line of his mouth makes Hajime startle.

       “Oikawa, I…” Hajime tries, apprehensive, and then doesn’t know what to say. What? That he needed a little air? That he has nightmares like he is still a little kid and found Oikawa’s presence too suffocating to hang around? Yeah right, as if that would go over great.

       “I was just about to leave,” Oikawa says, his voice neutral, “I have practice in an hour.” There is hickey purpling high on Oikawa’s neck Hajime distinctly remembers putting there. The collar of Oikawa’s coat doesn’t quite cover it.

       “You don’t—“ Hajime tries again, but Oikawa clearly isn’t in the mood for listening, because he shoulders past Hajime.

       “Just a word of advice, Iwa _ -chan _ ,” Oikawa says, pausing on the threshold, the edge of something malicious creeping into his voice, “Next time you plan on ditching one of your one night stands, don’t come back before they are actually gone. It sort of ruins the point of it.”

       “I didn’t—”

       “I’ll see you around,” Oikawa says dismissively, and then walks out, closing the door behind him with a distinct  _ click. _

       Hajime stands there, alone, not quite able to wrap his mind around what just happened. He is pretty sure he screwed up.

       On the bed, — where Oikawa dropped it, — lies the broken picture frame. Hajime picks it up numbly and runs a thumb over the crack in the glass. He cuts himself doing it, and his finger leaves a red smear on the wooden frame as he walks over and hangs it back onto its nail.

       Five-year-old Hajime stares back at him through the broken glass, miserable and afraid. Hajime snatches the picture back off the wall and hurls it into his waste bin where the glass shatters satisfyingly. On the other side of the wall, his neighbour’s dog finally —  _ blessedly _ — stops barking.

 

ººº

 

       By the time Hajime has showered, eaten breakfast and gotten dressed, he is both thoroughly late for class and deeply unconcerned by this fact. He has also decided that anger is a much more productive emotion than crippling disappointment and therefore worked himself into a bit of a righteous fury. He slams his apartment door shut with enough force to make it rattle on its hinges, and then almost barges right into his neighbour who is once again leaning lazily against the balustrade with a smoke between his fingers. He looks like he just woke up — the bastard — his hair even more messy than usual and wearing old washed-out high school gym clothes.

       “Morning sunshine,” the guy drawls, his customary smirk already firmly in place, “you’re looking particularly perky.”

       “Leave it,” Hajime growls, and digs around his pockets for his keys.

       “Aw, you have a bad morning then?”

       “I said  _ leave it _ ,” Hajime fumbles and drops his keys onto the floor, — his angry rush making him clumsy.

       “Sure,” the guys says and shrugs, still smirking. The tip of his cigarette burns orange as he inhales. “What about a smoke then? You look like you need it.”

       Hajime snatches the keys back up from the floor and casts a glance over his shoulder at his neighbour. The guy is holding out a pack of cigarettes as if in offering. Hajime glances down at the keys in his hand and scowls at them. “Alright,” Hajime decides, and opens his front door again, hurls the keys inside, — smashing something by the sound of it, — and then slams the door shut again.

       He goes to pick the cigarette from his neighbour’s waiting hand and catches the accompanying lighter deftly, ignoring the amused tilt of the other guy’s mouth.

       “Want to talk about it? Sharing is caring you know.”

       “I  _ really _ don’t,” Hajime grits out, and squints at the unlit cigarette between his fingers. It is some cheap brand he doesn’t know — the filter a flimsy, short thing and the tobacco smells a little too much of tar. They stand like that for a few minutes in silence before Hajime’s neighbour apparently decides silence is overrated,

       “I think I finally figured you out,” his neighbour says, twirling his smoke absentmindedly between his fingers, “At first I just thought you were a prude you know? Shy. Always alone.”

       “Not everyone needs someone to be happy,” Hajime says and scowls down at his own hand — at the way his cigarette sits comfortably between his fingers. He hates his own hypocrisy.

       “I’m not saying they do, just that  _ you _ do,” the guy shifts, angling his body so he can squint at Hajime, “It’s obvious you’re miserable, man. Any idiot can see  _ that _ . What’s been stomping me is the  _ why, _ you know? My bro Bokuto thinks you must have crabs.”

       “ _ Why would your friend think — _ no you know what, never fucking mind.”

       “Yeah, you don’t say,”

       “And what’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

       “Oh I don’t know, the incredibly hot guy leaving your apartment? Unless he stormed out because you  _ do  _ have crabs, in which case I really can’t blame him.”

       “Fuck off,” Hajime growls, and finally flicks the lighter deftly, lighting his smoke. “The guy was an idiot anyway,” he continues, his words more harsh than even he’d expected, ”A reckless  _ idiot _ who’s probably going to injure himself someday soon. I wasn’t supposed to  _ like  _ him, we— we weren’t supposed to ’click’,” his use of air quotes earns him a snort from his neighbour. “I just thought, you know, I’d ask him out, talk. See where it went.”

       “Fuck him into the mattress,” the guy supplies, smirking. “The walls here are pretty thin.”

       “I hadn’t noticed,” Hajime grits out. He keeps forgetting that he hates this guy because of his damn dog, — but then, there are so many  _ other _ reasons to hate this guy Hajime has a hard time keeping track.

       “Besides,” Hajime’s neighbour says, tapping ashes into an empty coffee can left there for that very purpose, “You’re not really a ‘ _ see where it goes’ _ type of person,” — his use of air quotes is accompanied by a distinct sense of mockery. “I told you, I figured you out. You’re one of those forward-planner types aren’t you. Long ass education, money already being sat aside for a future home, picky as fuck about whom you want to date.”

       “There’s nothing wrong with that,” Hajime insists, slightly defensive.

       “Except, you’re clearly miserable man. My bro Bokuto keeps saying you don’t get enough hugs. He’s sensitive like that.”

       “Anyway,” Hajime says, resisting  _ that _ particular rabbit hole, “Oikawa doesn't fit anywhere into that equation, and he's pissed at me now, so whatever. Alright? Never fucking mind.”

       “Except you like him,”

       “What?”

       “That's what you said, before. You said you liked him.” Hajime seriously considers punching his neighbour right in his smug face.

       “ _ Fine _ !” Hajime says instead and throws a hand into the air, “I like him.”

       “Yeah, no kidding.”

       “No, I mean, I  _ really like him. _ And now he thinks I bailed on him.”

       “You sort of did bail on him, dude,” the guys shrugs apologetically when this earns him a glare, “I told you bro, thin walls.” Hajime leans over the balustrade and groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

       “I could probably fall in love with him,” Hajime admits.

       “Duuuude.”

       “How do you even tell someone you just met that?”

       “Well,” his neighbour drawls, slow, — a Cheshire grin curling his mouth. “So far you’re doing okay.”

       Somewhere down the stairs, — just out of sight, — someone lets out a squeak. Hajime whips around, dropping his cigarette in the process.

       “ _ Oikawa _ ?”

       The stairs remain suspiciously quiet.

       “Your guy is definitely down there,” Hajime’s neighbour says. “I totally caught a glimpse of his hair just now.”

       A few longs seconds pass before Oikawa finally emerges with an air of definitive nonchalance that strikes Hajime as particularly practised.

       “Just for the record,” Oikawa says haughtily, “I only came back because you pissed me off, and I was going to yell at you some more.”

       “How much of that did you hear?” Hajime asks weakly, torn between relief and utter humiliation.

       “You called me an idiot.  _ Twice _ . You sort of suck Iwa-chan.” Oikawa comes to halt in front of Hajime, his arms crossed over his chest. Hajime sort of hates, that Oikawa is tall enough to tower over him. It gets his hackles up.

       “You  _ are  _ an idiot, Shittykawa.”

       “Why would you say I’m going to injure myself?” Oikawa’s eyes glint dangerously, “You always say stuff like you know shit.”

       “It’s none of your business,” Hajime says on reflex, and distantly wonders what the hell he is doing right now. He is pretty sure he should be grovelling.

       “It’s  _ about me _ ! How is it not my business?” Oikawa’s voice is steadily rising in volume.

       “It’s sort of his business dude,” Hajime’s neighbour puts in, his eyes darting back and forth between them and his mouth curling with amusement.

       “That day at the hospital, you knew I hadn’t eaten breakfast,” Oikawa says hotly, “How’d you know that?”

       “Dude that’s creepy,” the guy chimes in.

       “Could you leave?” Hajime glares at his neighbour.

       “I could,” the guy allows but doesn’t move.

       “Look I just…” Hajime runs a hand through his hair and then decides to screw it all. “I just  _ know  _ alright? I can see stuff like that. Illnesses. Wounds. It runs in the family. It’s how I know your knee has been bothering you.” Oikawa looks distinctly uncomfortable. 

       “My knee isn’t—”

       “Shut up.”

       “ _ Fine _ . But that’s the lamest superpower ever Iwa-chan.”

       “I know.”

       “And you’re going to have to make it up to me because you  _ suck _ at confessions.”

       “That did  _ not  _ count as a confession,” Hajime says, and crosses his arms to match Oikawa, “Definitely not.” Oikawa gapes.

       “It  _ did _ !”

       “I’m taking it back,” Hajime insists stubbornly.

       “You can’t just take it back! What is wrong with you?”

       “Man, you’re making this whole thing way complicated,” Hajime’s neighbour agrees.

       “Oikawa,” Hajime says and takes a step forward, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I really like you, will you please go out with me?”

       Oikawa blinks at him several times, as a blush creeps all the way up his neck to his ears.

       “See?” Hajime says, softly, “That’s a confession.”

       “Meh. Seven out of ten,” Hajime’s neighbour says, snuffing his cigarette out on the lid of the can, “I’ve seen better.”

       ” _ Who are you even? _ ” Oikawa exclaims, slightly hysterical and throws up his hands at the guy.

       ”He’s my neighbour,” Hajime says at the same time as the guy introduces himself as ”Kuroo Tetsurou.”

       “Man, I’ve been your neighbour for almost two years, how do you still not remember my name?” Kuroo complains, and rolls his eyes.

       “I’m bad with names,” Hajime says defensively.

       “Anyway. Could you please  _ leave _ ?” Oikawa huffs, and glares at Kuroo.

       “No way,” Kuroo says, raising his eyebrows, “I haven’t heard your answer yet. I’m emotionally invested now, I can’t just  _ leave.” _

       “I  _ came back _ didn’t I?” Oikawa snaps, “Obviously I like him, too! It was in the subtext Testu-chan!”

       “Wait, so you’ll go out with me?” Hajime’s heart has kicked into overdrive, and he grins as he reaches out to grab Oikawa’s hand, tangling their fingers.

       “Yes,” Oikawa says, and is abruptly blushing again. “Obviously.”

       “Yeah?”

       “Yeah.”

       “You two are so disgusting,” Kuroo complains.

       Oikawa leans forward and kisses Hajime squarely on the mouth.

 

ººº 

 

       “Uggghhhhh” Oikawa groans and rolls over on the bed into Hajime, pulling his pillow over his head. “Make that dog  _ stop.” _

       “It’ll never stop,” Hajime moans, groggy and oddly fatalistic considering the early hour. “It’s been like this for a year now.”

       On the other side of the wall, the dog’s shrill barks slowly build into its usual deafening crescendo. 

       Oikawa stuffs his cold nose against the skin of Hajime’s throat. “It’s too early,” Oikawa complains. “How do you live like this?”

       “I don’t,” Hajime says, wrapping his arms around Oikawa “I usually leave.”

       “This really needs to stop,” Oikawa murmurs darkly, his voice muffled. “He’s your neighbour,  _ talk  _ to him about it already.”

       “Talking to Kuroo exhausts me,” Hajime mutters and then yelps as Oikawa presses his icy toes against Hajime’s shins.

       “Do it Iwa-chan! Or resign yourself to sleeping at my place.”

       “Fine,” Hajime rolls reluctantly out of bed, muttering curses at Oikawa’s overly talkative roommate.

       “Didn’t you have an eight am lecture Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks, squinting at the alarm clock. By all rights Hajime should already have been preparing to leave.

       “Not going,” Hajime grunts as he pulls on a pair of pants, “I’m flunking out.”

       “Hmmm,” Oikawa hums, pulling the covers further up over his shoulders, “Good. I was going talk to you about that.”

       Hajime’s hands stills and he abandons his shoelaces to stare at Oikawa.

       “Wait, you knew?”

       “It was pretty obvious you didn’t want to be a doctor, Iwa-chan. You never even study.”

       “Yeah but…”

       “Just make the dog stop barking already.”

       Hajime stares at his boyfriend for a few seconds, before deciding it’s too early for this conversation and finishes tying his shoes.

       “Hurry!” Oikawa mutters into the mattress.

       Hajime shakes his head and drags himself outside, squaring his shoulders before knocking firmly on Kuroo’s door.

       A few curses can be heard through the door, before a groggy Kuroo Tetsurou emerges.

       “Dude,” Kuroo says, squinting out at Hajime, “It’s not even eight yet.”

       “Make your dog  _ shut up,”  _ Hajime points a finger at Kuroo, “or I  _ swear  _ I’m going to report your ass to the dean.”

       “What dog?” Kuroo asks with enough confusion that it is almost convincing.

       “The dog barking its head off every morning and driving me insane.  _ That dog.” _

       “Dude I hate dogs,” Kuroo says, nodding, “I’m more of a cat person myself.”

       Not for the first time, Hajime sort of wants to punch him in the face.

       “Ohhh,” Kuroo snaps his fingers, “Wait you mean my alarm clock?”

       “Dude,” Hajime groans, disbelieving.

       “You should have just said something man,” Kuroo says, emerging further from his apartment and patting Hajime on the shoulder consolingly. “Would you prefer birds chirping? I’ve heard that’s supposed be the best way to wake up anyway.”

       Hajime slinks back inside his apartment — defeated, — and creeps under the covers, not even bothering to pull off his shoes. “We’re going to have to look for a new place,” Hajime mutters.

       “This place is lousy anyway,” Oikawa consoles, “The walls are too thin.”

 

 

 

[Fin]

 

 

 


End file.
